


We are, Always

by Sapphire09



Series: Heart of Winter [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Harry was a hidden brilliance, Harry was an older sibling, John wasn't always a polite kid, She used to be much wiser, Sibling Love, mention of rape, non graphic depiction of underage rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2071854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphire09/pseuds/Sapphire09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry was once his whole world, parents and sister in one. Her words were the truth, the only truth he would trust. She used to be everything, the one thing he could trust and believe.</p><p>And then she wasn't.</p><p>Part 2 of the Heart of Winter series, [Forever,Us] through John Watson's eyes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Us Against The World

**Author's Note:**

> Not brit-picked or beta-ed. All mistakes are my own

_And I find it kind of funny_  
 _I find it kind of sad_  
 _The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had_  
 _I find it hard to tell you,_  
 _I find it hard to take_  
 _When people run in circles it's a very, very_  
 _Mad world, mad world_  
  
 _**Gary Jules - Mad World** _

* * *

John couldn't remember much of his childhood, but he remembered that his sister was once his whole world. He couldn't remember the details, but he remembered how often his sister had cried. He remembered having a father and a mother, but he didn't know what those words had meant.

People said a father was the one that protected you and cared for you and fulfill your needs. Mother was supposedly the one that made you breakfasts and kissed you goodnight, who would sing you lullabies before you sleep and tell you stories.

His parents never did any of those things. Not in his memory.

It was always Harry.

Harry protected him whenever father would lash out, drunk and angry. Harry was the one that would put band-aids on him when he scratched his knee after he fell in the park. Harry made his breakfast and bought his lunch, and she would kiss him goodnight after he gave her the same pain-reliever like the one she used on him when he fell and gave her the pretty Band-Aids, before falling asleep in his room. She would sing him lullabies and soothe him when he had nightmares. She would read to him too, any books that she borrowed in the day from the kindly old lady from across the street.

But, Harry was his sister. She wasn't his mother or father. So, he didn't understand what it meant to have mother or father. He was different.

But, other kids didn't have a Harry.

Harry was enough in his childish mind.

When he said so to his teacher, they had an odd look on their faces. But they never did ask. They just smiled and still insisted to describe his parents anyway. He asked Harry that night, in a rare times when she wasn't covered in new bruises and helping him study.

Harry told him that their father’s name is James Arnold Watson and their mother is Augustine Marie Watson. Father was a retired veteran and worked in a factory while mother stayed at home. She also told him of father’s characteristics (dark blue eyes, blond hair, 5 ft 10 in) and mother’s (pale blue eyes, platinum blonde hair, 5 ft 3 in).

“I don’t think this was what they were asking,” he remembered telling her.

“Well, if you write down anything else, they’ll just tell you to repeat the work or call down our parents. Just write what I told you. This will get you a C at least,” was her answer.

He stared at the bruises peeking from under her sleeves, covered in messy bandages he had helped to put on.

At first he didn't understand why Harry was hurt often. But, he learned to dab her wounds with antiseptics and put the Band-Aids with her favorite character on her wounds, like how she had showed him when he was hurt.

Harry never said why she was hurt, and John was happy to be able to do something for his sister. But, he wasn't stupid. As he grew, he had an inkling of why. Although he rarely saw his father, he knew how often his father raged in the house. Harry always told him to stay in his room, but he had an idea of what happened. He never saw, but he knew father must’ve hit her.

“Shouldn’t we tell someone?” he asked. Harry just raised one of her eyebrows in question. John was suddenly unsure, because Harry never talked about it. So, he looked down as he said his next words.

“The other day, there was a lecturer coming to school. About stranger danger. Or something along those lines, anyway. She said that if we get into trouble, we should tell someone. Our parents. Or teachers.”

“And what do we tell them what, exactly?”

“About father. Who hit you. Often.”

“I never said father hits me,” Harry said. John looked up to her and glared.

“I’m not stupid, you know. I’m seven, not two. I know he hits you,” he insisted, daring her to deny his words.

She didn’t.

“Well, you can try telling someone if you want. Just try to not make it worse for me, or for yourself. If Father got called, he will get mad once you’re home. Then, it would be either me, or you. And you know I would never let him hurt you,” she warned.

He didn’t understand why she would say that. But, after he went to his teacher, he understood.

“Look, John,” his teacher said, “Are you sure your sister was hit? By your father? She didn’t just fall down?”

When he insisted, his teacher then said to him that he would call his father to confirm if his story was true.

“It is true!” he said, “That’s why you can’t call him! Harry said that will make it worse!”

The teacher just sighed and looked at him like he was an annoyance.

“John, I’m sure you have a nice intention. But, what you’re accusing of your father is a serious accusation. You can’t just accuse your father to hit your sister.”

“But it is true! He hits her! Often!” he insisted again. He didn’t understand why it was so hard to convince an adult of something that is the truth. The lecturer made it seem so easy…

“Okay, okay,” his teacher placated, but the annoyance was still visible, “Then, have you seen your father did it? Did you see him hitting your sister?”

“No… but I know it was him,” he said hesitantly, and the look on his teacher’s face was starting to get impatient.

“Then, how do you know it was him? Your sister could’ve fell or got into trouble on her own.”

John was about to tell him, but before he could, the teacher cut him off.

“John, I’ll forgive you this time, and I won’t call your parents. I’m sure you’re saying this because of your sister, but I hope there won’t be a next time. It was a terrible accusation, John.”

John never tried to tell anyone again. It didn’t worth it, to be looked at with pity and as if he— _they,_ were liars.

“My teacher saw my bruises. I know she did,” Harry told him one night, “She never asked or said anything. As if it wasn’t confirmed, then it didn’t happen. They’ll close their minds to the things they see, if it doesn’t suit to what they believe in. For them, the horrible truth might as well be a lie.”

“But, I was telling the truth!” John said, not understanding why anyone won’t believe him. Harry looked sad, before she lay down on her brother’s bed, with her right arm spread beside her. John followed down, his head on her sister’s arm as a make-shift pillow with his body turned to her. His arms and legs tucked between them and Harry pulled the blanket to cover them both before settling her free hand on top of John.

“It doesn’t matter whether it was the truth or not,” she said softly, her breath tickled the top of John’s hair as he listened.

“But, that’s not right…. That’s not fair.”

“People believe what they want to believe. They see what they wanted to see. They hear what they wanted to hear, and the people in this town don’t want to believe that horrible things are happening around them. So, they won’t listen to us, because they don’t want to believe it. It’s not fair, but it is. It’s just you and me, Johnny.”

“Just the two of us against the world…”

“Exactly.”

* * *

The time he realized something had changed was when his sister came into his bedroom, limping weirdly. Harry had limped before, when father would hit her legs or abdomen. But, he knew tonight was different.

He had never seen the expression his sister wore tonight. And, for one second, he was scared for her.

“Harry…?” he asked with voice still weak from sleep. He didn’t have time to see much besides her expression before he was suddenly engulfed in an embrace. 

The embrace itself wasn’t uncommon, but there was something else that his childish mind couldn’t understand in that embrace. Something… bad. He could feel her shaking.

“Harry? What’s wrong?” he asked, concerned. She was never like this before. He also felt something wet dampening the shoulder of his pyjamas. While she had often cried before, she hadn’t done so for a long while lately. When she tightened her grip on him, he was worried and concerned, and very scared for her.

He didn’t know what happened. He didn’t know what she needed to make it better. He didn’t know which wound to apply antibiotics on and which graze to put Band-Aids on. She was crushing him, but he couldn’t ask her to let go.

So, he hesitantly wrapped his smaller arms around her middle. He remembered the bruises there, so he tried to be gentle. When it seemed like Harry didn’t feel any pain there, he held on tighter on her, as tight as he could. He felt Harry leaned to him more and the bad thing in the embrace slowly eased.

He didn’t understand and he didn’t know if he was doing it right, but Harry gradually relaxed, before they fell asleep tangled in each other. The expression Harry had was gone in the morning, so John hoped he did it right.

Harry never told him what happened, but whatever it was, that night was only the first time. The next time it happened, Harry stumbled to his room and embraced him again. She asked him to hold her again, and they fell asleep like that again.

She would murmur about London and John and ‘together’ as he held her. She would tell him the amazing things she had heard or read about London and how it would be their adventure. He would be awed and would ask about the wonders of London, before they would sleep with dreams of London.

Sometimes, Harry would also whisper her hate of mother. John rarely saw her, with her often in her room and him in school and his room. Harry wouldn’t let him go anywhere if father was home or if she couldn’t come along. For him, mother and father were only words to describe the adults living in the house.

* * *

Sometimes, he would hear gossips around school, especially around the teacher’s lounge. He liked sitting alone at recess and eat lunch on his own. If he ate with other kids, they will try to take some from him, and he didn’t like that. Other kids also like to say hurtful things to each other, so he didn’t like them very much. He knew he was different from the others, and he didn’t really mind it.

But, he always tried to be polite, because Harry taught him to. He didn’t decline if they asked him to play, but he wouldn’t play too long before he would go to his place, under the tree just behind the teacher’s lounge. He would sit on the side where the teachers wouldn’t be able to see him. The distance wasn’t too far, so he would often listen on the teacher’s talk.

Sometimes, he would hear them talking about his father. According to them, father was ‘handsome’ and ‘chiselled’. Just a factory worker, but he was sometimes ‘charming’. Rough around the edges and silent, and apparently that was ‘attractive’.

He wanted to throw something, like a boulder, to the lounge in hope to repair their brains.

Sometimes, he would hear about his mother, too. Apparently, she was considered a beauty in town, with her ‘snow-white skin and pale, golden lock’. They commented on how Harry looked like their father, from the shape of her eyes and nose, but with their mother’s hair and eye colour. While John looked more like their mother with their father’s hair and eye colour.

Sometimes, he would also hear about other children’s parents. About the weather. About who is the hottest parent or about the trends. As if it was more important than anything else that they could be talking about.

“We’re lucky we live in such peaceful town. We don’t have to deal with problem children or those domestic abuses in telly. The people that live here are decent and although the children are energetic and naughty at times, at least no one is bothersome.”

John didn’t care about the adults anymore. He won’t be here forever anyway.

Harry promised London for him.

* * *

He was reading the book Harry had borrowed for him, ‘The Hobbit’. He loved it, the adventures it told. He dreamed of having an adventure like that. He admired the bravery of the character, as he imagined himself to be as brave, someday. ( _And then, maybe, he could fend of his father like the hobbit did with the horrible creatures in his journey!_ )

He was reading on the part about the Dragon when his door was opened in a loud slam.

Startled, he looked up to his door, to see his father standing on his doorway. Surprise and fear mixed into one, and he slowly put the book under his pillow, the only safe place he could think of without him moving.

“F-Father? W-What are you doing h-here?” he asked, not daring to move. In his mind, he wondered where Harry was and why was his father in his room. Will he hit him? Will he hurt him?

John was mentally prepared if his father wanted to hit him. At least, it would mean his sister wouldn’t have to bear it alone anymore.

“Harry hasn’t come back yet?” his father asked, and this was the first time John noticed how deep his father’s voice was. When John hesitantly shook his head, there was an ugly smile on father’s lips.

There was dread in his stomach as he felt shiver ran up his spine.

Without warning, he was pinned on his bed. Big, strong arms holding him in his place. He tried to trash out and cried out as loud as he could, but suddenly a palm as big as his head settled tightly above his mouth and nose. His father used his elbow to pin his other arm, and he still couldn’t move.

This was the first time he realized how big his father was. How small he was, compared to his father.  Pinned like he was, it felt he was held down by iron and boulder instead of a person.

He couldn’t move at all.

“You look so much like Augustine,” his father whispered deeply, too near to his ears. “So pretty and nice, more than your sister…”

The hand that was around his mouth moved, going above his head and pinned his wrist together instead. He tried to scream, but another mouth covered his own, and he tasted something revolting that made bile rise to his throat. His father’s other hand went down to his torso and going downwards.

At first, he didn’t understand what was going to happen until it happened. The searing pain that threatened to rip him to two made him realize what was happening, what will happen, and what had happened.

It was an act of a monster.

Confusion, fear, panic, and a burning hate made him struggle as the feeling he didn’t want to focus on intensified and kept on burning him, and for the first time in his life he wondered if he would die from the pain.

When he glimpsed his sister standing at the door, hope and desperation surged within him.

_‘helpmehelpmehelpleasehelppleasepleasepleasegethimoffgethimoffGETHIMOFFME!!’_

When the weight above him disappeared, followed by a blood curling scream, John was still trying to breathe. He focused on his breathing instead of the burn he could still feel as the sound of a metal stabbing the meat and knocking the bones was accompanied by the disappearing scream in slow cadence. When he regained his breath back, he turned his head towards his sister.

“Harry…” his voice was weak when he called her, and he was almost afraid she wouldn’t be able to hear him. But, she turned around from when she crouched and focused on him.

He could see the blood splattered across her face and neck, trailing downwards and seeping into her tainted shirt. She was bathed in red, even her pale blonde hair was painted in blood.  The smell of copper reminded him of fire and brimstone, and the glint in her eyes reminded him of the dragon in the book he had tried to read.

She went over to him and held him tightly in her arms, not unlike those odd nights when she came over to his room and held him tightly until they fell asleep. He absently felt the blood that covered her seeping into what was left of his clothes and clung to his skin, but he couldn’t mind it when he finally felt _safe_ in her arms, tethered and tightly bound even when he felt like breaking and swallowed up in flames.

He then understood why she came to him those odd nights.

“Did he do what he did to you too?” he asked without really knowing what he asked, the incident still being repeated in his mind, trying to make some sense. Something. Anything.

He felt her nod on his shoulder as his mind filled with questions of _Why?_

From the embrace, he chanced to peek on what was left on their father. A faceless corpse, his face in tatters of skin and stubbed flesh with broken pieces of bones, destroyed beyond recognition and his throat damaged from the missed aims of the scissor. The blood that surrounded him was creating a mocking of a miniature pond, his body as the island.

The pain was still fresh between his thighs. Hand-shaped bruises still throbbed, but dulled by a numbness he couldn’t understand, and he imagined the same pain and bruises on Harry.

There was a sadness of a life passing, but the relief was greater than any feeling he was supposed to feel.(‘ _gonefreegonesafeHarrietsistersafeLondon_ ’)

He didn’t want to see the mangled corpse anymore, too sick and too numb at the same time to even contemplate anything but the warm embrace surrounding him, the safety his sister kept him in. So, he burrowed his head deeper and into the embrace. When he spoke, his voice was muffled by his sister’s flesh and tainted shirt, and he could taste the ghost of blood at the tip of his tongue when he spoke.

“Good thing he’s dead, then.”

He knew Harry could hear him anyway.

* * *

For a while, it was peaceful. He could finally appreciate the days he had without worrying of what his father would do to Harry tonight. He saw how Harry had been happier and lighter as she spent more time in his room, reading together and reciting the lines, playing pretend without care in the world.

_(He loved her voice as she recited the Dragon to him, and he would say the Hobbit’s line back. She loved the Dragon, with its ferociousness and might which would do anything to protect its treasure, its hoard. She had said that if she was a dragon, then John must be her treasure—the one treasure that worth more than a mountain of gold. He remembered being warm all over when she said so, and he had replied that even though he liked being a Hobbit, he wouldn’t mind living together with the Dragon as her treasure.)_

Father was no more. No one would hurt her again. No one would hit her again. They could play as they wanted without fear of father’s repercussion. For the first time in a long while, he felt content.

He also realized he had been seeing more of his mother now, and he could start to see why everyone would say she was beautiful.

Even her age couldn’t hide the beauty she held. She looked fragile like glass, fit on display on the most expensive crystal cabinet. The age line that was supposed to form was invisible on her pale pallor and stoic expression.

Sometimes, in some rare times, she would talk to him. She would ask about James (father, dead, gone) and he would say he didn’t know.

(He never knew what Harry did with the body. He asked once, but Harry just said ‘ _far away from us’_ )

He didn’t know much of his mother, so there was a (childish) hopeful curiosity in him to know her better. Everything seemed to be getting better, so why shouldn’t she be the same? Maybe, father had hit her, too. She could be getting better now. He could know her better. Maybe, he could know what the children his age had been talking about when they talked about their mother.

Father was finally gone, after all.

* * *

_Are you my family?_  
 _Can I stay with you a while?_  
 _Can I stop off in your bed tonight?_  
 _I could make you smile_  
  
 **_Bat For Lashes - Siren Song_ **

 


	2. Mother Dearest

Ever since he first went to school, sometimes he would play with his school friends during recess. He didn’t enjoy it as much as playing with Harry, but he tried to be more social. Harry told him to at least try.

It was often boring and sometimes he felt stupid for trying, but the others would laugh and praise him, so he figured he wasn’t doing it wrong. Even though he didn’t really enjoy them, Harry had insisted to keep his social circle. She had said something about social norms and normal life.

“Why bother?” he had asked once, “We’re different from them.”

“We are,” his sister had said, “But, they don’t know that, and won’t believe otherwise. Social skill will be good for us in the future, and better to learn to have friends than enemies.”

“Why? We have each other. We’re our own friends.”

At first, Harry seemed to hesitate in answering, as if she didn’t want to tell me the reason. When she does answer, John felt that her words were more like quotes and repeating what she had read, instead of her own.

“Rivals can actually make us better at what we do. And, I was told friends protect each other, though I don’t really see how. Having friends can help you in school, though they couldn’t do anything about our home. But, at least it would mean one problem out of the way. Our home is complicated enough, no need to make our school life to be as hard.”

There was something she didn’t say, but at the time, his sister’s words were the only truth, the only thing he could believe in, in that world that consist only two of them.

So, he tried. There was a group that would often include him in their games and make him sit near them in class. They called him their friend, so he called them his, even though he felt that ‘friend’ wasn’t supposed to feel so shallow.

They called him nice and liked him for it, even though he didn’t understand what was there to be liked. He wasn’t being nice for them or for their sake. And, most of the time he didn’t even realized he was doing it. He didn’t feel like he was nice, but his sister did say he should be a good person.

Besides, father wasn’t a very good man, so he didn’t want to even be near like him.

* * *

 

John learned that he liked to take care of others. He liked taking care of Harry, and at first, he thought it was because she was _Harry_. But, he found himself unconsciously taking care of his friends, too.

Harry said that he was kind and had a big heart. She said it with such pride, so John decided not to ask why. He didn’t feel like he was a kind person, but he decided Harry must’ve seen what he couldn’t see, like how Harry couldn’t see how smart, how bright and sharp her mind was.

Though, no one else had seen it either.

But, he had seen her recounting from a book she had read once without missing a word. He had heard her telling him stories from the book she read but couldn’t borrow for him. They had played pretend from their favourite book, with them recounting their lines—she from her memory, and he from the book in his hands.

(He had seen her reading the people around them, from their gestures and minute-expressions, reading their heart as they showed them on their faces.)

She was glorious in her brilliance.

But, she had never shown it to others. For her, it was something she had always done. For her, it wasn’t anything special. So, she never thought of them as something special.

Being ‘normal’ was exhausting enough. She didn’t want to handle being ‘special’.

Their home was ‘special’ enough.

* * *

 

When Harry finally graduated, John regretted that he couldn’t attend her ceremony. Her graduation day was at the same time with a big test his school held. Harry didn’t mind it, since all she cared about graduating was the fact she could finally take John away. But, while she was away to prepare for the graduation day, mother had found him first.

His mother had asked for him for the first time in all his years. She had come to his room, looking like a ghost, with her pale pallor and platinum blonde hair. She never got out much, and with Harry handling their monetary necessity and John handling their chores, she rarely left her room. So, when she showed up at his door, looking almost like a ghost, he couldn’t just ignore her.

“John…?” she had called out, and John came closer to her, curious and slightly worried. She stayed away from the ray of light coming from his window, preferring to stay in the shadows. In the dark, she looked as beautiful as ever, and John couldn’t discern whether she was sick, or if she had wanted something else from him.

( _He should’ve jumped out of the window that day instead of listening to her_.)

His curiosity for his mother and his own nature made him listen when his mother asked him to keep her company. With father missing, Harry hating her existence, and the probability that Harry probably would take John away too, she had said how lonely she would be, alone in an empty house, with no one to care for her.

John had made the mistake of thinking that his mother needed him more than Harry did, with father now gone.

He had seen the disappointment in Harry’s eyes when he told her he was staying. He was sad, too. He had been looking forward to seeing London with her. It was their dream, the future they had always pictured together. But, he thought mother needed him there, with her.

Harry didn’t push him, letting him go with a sad smile. She didn’t say she would come back in every holiday she could get, in the breaks between her future university lives. But, he had always thought it was a given. There was no need for her to voice it out. He had thought it was something that was as obvious as the setting and rising of the sun.

So, when it took her three years to come back, the disappointment was already nurtured together with the bitterness, and the lingering sense of betrayal.

* * *

 

 At first, everything was the same as before Harry went away. He read books and spent time with his friends, but when he caught a glimpse of his mother in the house, in the rare times she was out of her room, he followed her and kept her company, talking about menial things of how his day was. Most of the time, his mother kept her silence, like she always did. But, John knew she paid him some attention as he spoke, from how she would glance at him as he spoke.

Her attention was only the beginning.

Then, she would reply to his greetings, with a smile thrown in some other rare times. John thought she was starting to open up to him, to relax.

And then, there was his imagination of having a normal finally at last. An idea that soon, he could tell his friends how his mother was to him.

When he woke up to darkness that was when his illusion ended.

He woke up groggy, his body ached, feeling that his bed was harder than he was used to. He remembered he was in his room when he went to sleep, wondering why the room was _so dark_.

 “Hello?” he called out to the dark, rubbing his eyes. “Mother? What happened? Did the lights went out?”

When there was no answer, he wondered if his mother was sleeping. It was dark, so dark, so perhaps it was already night time outside. So he tried to stand up, but he stumbled down when he felt the floor right beside what he thought was his bed.

“Mother?” He called out, alarmed. _The room was so dark –_

Even at night, his room was never this dark.

He took a deep breath, he felt himself shaking, even though he didn’t know _what was there to fear?_

_Dark, so dark, I can’t see anything –_

“M-Mother? Are you there?” he called out again, trying to stand and to calm his racing heart. He couldn’t even see the arms he held in front of him as he tried to navigate through the dark.

He tried to remember his room, trying to navigate his feet through his memory, but his hands didn’t touch _anything_. He walked and walked, but he didn’t find an end, _a wall, a drawer, furniture, anything!_ He kept calling for his mother, but there was no voice answering back, _no sound –_

“Mother!” he called out louder, lost in the darkness, not knowing where he was, _it wasn’t his room, couldn’t be,_ there was nothing. His ears began to ring, the silence suffocating, only the echo of his own voice was left in the darkness.

“Mother!!” he yelled out louder, scared and alone within the darkness. Moving was scary, but stopping –

“ _Mother, help! Please, anyone!”_ he cried out, desperate and hoping someone will hear, someone will check into the room, _just a little ray of light_ –

No one comes, no one answered.

He didn’t know where he was. _Where he is_.

He fell to his knees, burrowing his head and hands around his head, gripping his hair just so he knew _his hands are still there_. He couldn’t see anything, not even his body, his knees, or his arms and his hands.

“Harry, help me!”

No one comes.

* * *

 

At first, John was convinced it was just a nightmare. But, he woke up. And woke up. And woke up again to the same darkness. He was hungry, so hungry, and thirsty. He smelled of piss and faecal matter. He could feel his lips drying, the vertigo that wasn’t entirely caused by the dark place, and the feel of pain on his forearms that came from his blunt nails, gripping them too hard as he tried to _wake up_.

“Please, someone…. Help…” he muttered weakly, his throat had long since dried. Even his tears have run out. He wondered if this is how he would die, in the dark, no one to even hear him.

_‘Harry…. Help me…. Where are you…’_

He lied down on what he felt was the floor. Darkness, everywhere. He couldn’t see anything, _anything_.

He missed the sky.

 _I miss Harry_.

Even closing his eyes didn’t change the scenery much.

Then, suddenly, there was a voice.

“John?”

Mother.

Mother!

It was mother!!

“Mother! Mother, I’m here, mother!” he tried to call out. His voice came out hoarse, but he hoped his mother could still hear them. Then, there was a sliding sound.

_There was light_

His mother’s eyes looked in through the small opening.

“Mother, I’m here!” he said, hopeful that his mother will let him out. He didn’t know how he ended up in this place, how he got here, but once his mother –

“Come here, John,” his mother called. Another small opening appeared, and there was –

“Eat.”

There, by the new opening, was a plate with meagre food and a glass of water. A scoop of mashed potatoes and mashed… _something_. John looked up, half wondering if this was his mother trying to joke –

“Mother, I can cook –“

“Eat.”

Mother’s pale blue eyes were cold as she looked at where he stood without pity. Or _worry_.

John stared at the food again, served like she would _a dog_ , through thin opening _like a –_

“Mother – Mother, let me out –“

“Eat, John.”

Crying, John begged, scratching around the opening for a latch, something, _anything_ , to open the door, to open _something –_

_“Please Mother, let me out!!”_

The opening closed.

The darkness returned.

“No – _NO!! MOTHER!!! LET ME OUT!!!”_

* * *

 

The hunger burned his stomach. The thirst scrapped his throat. His hands flailed around, trying reach _something_ , and his hand went through the mashed potatoes his mother had left. With his hand, he scooped up the food. But, when his hand tried to reach the drink, the glass tipped over and spilled.

He licked down the floor to ease a little of his thirst.

He thought he fell asleep (how would he know the difference, to dark, so dark), his hands sticky and there was wetness on his face. He didn't know anymore if they were mostly tears or the water he tried his hardest to lap on.

* * *

 

He woke up again in his room. The smell of piss and faeces was gone, though his nose can’t stop smelling them. He was wearing pyjamas he didn’t remember wearing. He squinted blankly at his window, at the sun and _scenery_ outside his room, wondering if it was a dream, or _this is the dream?_

His eyes kept throbbing.

“John,” his mother called. His head quickly snapped to his door, where his mother stood. She wore a light yellow nightgown, though she still stayed away from the windows. From the sun.

John could feel his heart beating faster.

“You’ll be late to school, John. You should hurry and get ready,” his mother said, tone calm and there was barely any inflection in her tone.

 _A dream, a nightmare. Just a nightmare. Mother wouldn’t do that_.

“Yes, mother,” he replied. He couldn’t shake the tremor in his voice, but his mother didn’t seem to notice. His mother gave him a little smile, barely there, but it gave john a little bit of hope.

_Yes, mother wouldn’t do that._

John went to the bathroom, trying to brush his teeth as well as to calm himself and shake off his nightmare. He’s not six anymore, he shouldn’t be scared of nightmares. Harry will laugh, and he promised that he would be brave, even without Harry. He promised her.

Looking at his reflection, he tried on a smile. A brave smile. John thought it looked convincing and nodded to himself.

It was just a horrible, terrible nightmare. Very real, but still a nightmare.

( _His hands wouldn’t stop shaking –)_

But, as he unbuttoned and slipped off his pyjamas, there were crescent scabs that fits with his own fingernails.

Then he also remembered that before his nightmare, it was supposed to be a Friday.

Today was supposed to be Saturday.

There’s no school on Saturdays.

John stared at the barely healed marks on his forearms, mind blank, and he almost didn’t hear his mother knocking on the bathroom door.

“Are you not ready yet, John? There’s an Alex here, he said you promised to get to school together today.”

Alex. A friend from class. He asked in Friday (yesterday, it was yesterday, wasn’t it?) if they can go together to school in Monday. But, today can’t be Monday. Today was supposed to be Saturday.

“I –“ _No, his mother didn’t – she – she wouldn’t –_

_Would she?_

“I- I need to change my clothes.”

“Very well, I will tell this Alex to wait a bit. Hurry, okay?”

 _It was more than his mother ever said to him, ever_.

There was Alex. Because Alex is here, listening.

After his mother went away, John hurried back to his room, changing his clothes as fast as he could. He grabbed his backpack, didn’t bother with checking its contents and just went straight to the porch. There was Alex, chatting amicably with his mother, who mostly smiled and nodded as Alex babbled.

There was fear that strikes John as he watched the scene in front of him. It was then that Alex noticed him, quickly waving enthusiastically and grinning. He didn’t see how John’s expression went slightly cold, _calculating –_

“Let’s go, Alex! Bye M-Mother,” John grabbed Alex’s wrist and dragged him away. He didn’t bother looking back, but Alex still tried to twist and gave a wave as he yelled a “Goodbye, Mrs. Watson!”

_Away, away, I need to get away –_

“Hey, slow down, John. It’s okay, we’re not _that_ late,” Alex laughed a little, pulling the hand that John had gripped. It was a light pull, but It made John notice that he was gripping the wrist a little hard.

When he released the hand, he realized his own was still _shaking_.

_I need to get away, I need to call Harry –_

“Hey, are you okay, John? You look a bit pale.”

Alex was suddenly right there in front of his face, which made him flinch backwards and stumbled on his own foot. He didn’t fall down, but he almost did. Alex looked at him with confusion.

“Are you okay, John? Seriously, are you sick?”

_I think my mom put me in a dark room and tried to make me as crazy as her._

The words were there, at the tip of his tongue, but he remembered the adults that didn’t care, that looked at him as if he was a liar. He remembered Harry’s words. ‘ _Having friends can help you in school, though they couldn’t do anything about our home’_

There was only himself at home. Friends can’t help him at home.

 _There was only ever Harry_.

God, John wanted to cry.

“John, are you sure you’re okay? I can tell the teachers if you’re sick,” Alex asked, sounding concernced.

John was afraid if he went home now, his mother will put him away again in the Dark Room.

“I-I’m okay. Just miss my sister a bit.”

John tried to get his emotion under control. He’s not a kid anymore. _He’s thirteen now_. _He can’t cry –_

“Oh, your older sister, right? I get it. My dad was away all the time too, I barely see him anymore lately. Work thing, my mum said.

John didn’t understand.

John didn’t know what a ‘dad’ was.

He thought he might be getting to know what a ‘mum’ was, but he was wrong/

God, he was so _wrong_.

“It’s okay. She has to come home for holidays, right? My dad always came home for the holidays.”

 _She has to. Please. She_ has _to._

_Harry, please, help me…_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a long time. So long....... Is there still someone following this story?


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